Look, I’m may be tall but I’m no runway model

Wednesday

Sep 19, 2012 at 12:01 AMSep 19, 2012 at 12:18 PM

Pam Stone

The belief that one should make an effort to leave a community better than the way one found it is a reason I enjoy doing benefits.

Generally, these are stand-up performances for everything from Habitat to Humanity to Red Cross, Mobil Meals to women’s shelters and, recently, for a change, I’ve been delighted to offer book signings, donating back a substantial portion of sales. All of these things are enjoyable, fund great causes, and I look forward to them.

Until my friend, PJ, called.

“Pam, Kelley and I are putting on a benefit fashion show next week and were wondering if you would consider being involved.”

“Well, sure, I love you guys.” I replied, making a vain attempt to multi-task and finish an email as we chatted. “Do you need me to emcee?”

“Not this time,” PJ (or ‘ Peej ,’ as Kelley calls her) said. “Nancy Welch is going to help us with that. We’d like you to model.”

“It takes more than being tall and skinny to be a model,” I protested. “Otherwise, Lurch would be on the cover of Vogue.”

But they were having none of it. Doubtfully, I arrived at their shop the following morning to play Cinderella as Kelley brought me armfuls of outfits to wriggle into – the first being a clingy, bright red number.

“It’s perfect!” she cried, hands clasped together.

“I look like a thermometer.” I muttered, appraising myself in the body-length mirror, still in my Dollar Store flip flops.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kelley retorted. “It looks great, but I love the black suit, too. And the teal dress. Do you have any black, strappy , sandals to wear with it?”

“Sure,” I chirped. “I generally put them on when I go into the barn to clean stalls and feed in the morning. No, I don’t have any girly shoes at all. But if Muck Boot comes out with a pump, I’ll be the first in line to buy it.”

A decision of three outfits were made and I drove back home, looking despairingly at my mime-white legs and wondering how I would even-out my ‘rider’s tan.’ My arms, despite lashings of sunblock , are as brown as beans, ending abruptly mid-wrist where riding gloves cover my hands. Wearing breeches and boots all summer, my legs should probably be checked for a vitamin D deficiency – they rarely see the sun. I had two days to sit just inside the shade of the barn in the early afternoon, sticking my legs out into the direct sun, turning my position slowly over, like a chicken on a spit, trying to rid them of the white glare that was capable of burning ants on the pavement.

“Why not try those self-tanning lotions?” Paul suggested , walking past on the way to the tool shed.

“And look like John Boehner?” I cried, angling a sheet of aluminum foil at my calves.

I have never been in such a blind panic about an appearance. Even standing backstage, years ago, at the Tonight Show, or Oprah, I was usually munching on something from the catering table, confident in my material to be able to deliver with ease when the curtains parted and I hit the stage...but now I was to do something I was clearly unprepared to do: the runway walk, teetering on skinny heels and not tripping over my bunion-adorned sized 10s! I haven’t slept for days...

By the time this goes to press, the fashion show will be a distant memory and I pray I won’t have ended in ER with a snapped ankle. I also pray that I won’t be cringing from humiliating memories and, particularly, a viral youtube showing a splattering fall.

Because, after all, it’s only while doing stand-up that you want everyone in a room laughing at you...

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